Keeping Warm
by Vanwise
Summary: {GG} Some things are felt before they're realized. Some are realized and never voiced. {GG}
1. Moonlit Blunders

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AN**: Quasi-fanfic virgin here. I had an account on ff before the beautiful offspring that fp is came to be. I usually try my hand at original fiction, so this is my first (posted) exploit into the world of fanfiction.

The whole of this story was written over the course of a harried week about a month ago as part of a B-day gift for my heterosexual life partner Hellsing. It's not my best writing, but I guess it turned out well enough. –cringes at glaring errors- I apologize....too tired/busy/lazy to fix them all.

Anywho, Enjoy the wonderful, sinful goodness that is GG.

((Eternal thanks and love to hellsing, without whom I'd still be blundering around in the deep dark world of het..))

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

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**Chap 1 : Moonlit Blunders**

Relief had come to Brittan's parched land, if only briefly. Rain fell from billowing, angry clouds in sheets that made anything farther than five feet nearly invisible. Dusty roadways immediately churned to mud, greedily sopping up the precious liquid that had been absent so long. The storm had come up quickly and unexpected in summer's dry heat. Early that morning, a small party of warriors left their nightly camp, already weary of the heat and travel.

Tristan had frowned at the thunderheads, wordlessly pointing them out to Arthur. Hours had passed. The clouds overtook them with the disconcerting speed and power that Nature had the occasional wont to expose. Now rain fell with such fierce, unbridled intensity that it could not possibly sustain itself. The brighter the flame, the shorter it burns; so too it was with rain.

The knights assured each other of this fact as they finally ceased for the night.

"Tell me Arthur!" Lancelot demanded, sliding from his stallion into the sucking mud of the roadway, "Do you pray to your god for favoring weather when you ask for our safety?"

Bors hacked a ragged laugh, "I damn well hope as not. I've no taste to die"

Arthur ignored them both, searching the roadside for a suitable spot to break camp. Gawain seriously doubted he'd find one. The storm had erased any dry spell of ground in its first minutes. But it would cease soon, Gawain assured himself, it had to.

Galahad did not seem as perturbed by the sudden turn of weather as the rest of his comrades. Still seated atop his horse, he laughed deeply and threw back his head, letting the water splash down upon his face. The drops rapidly formed small streams that ran down the young man's temples, dripped along his jaw line, and steadily soaked his collar and chest. The simple white jerkin he wore beneath his armor was soaked in seconds, making the fabric nearly transparent. Gawain cursed the boy beneath his breath, naming him a siren, willing the unwary to fatal distraction.

"Glorious!" Galahad exclaimed, clapping his hands together, somehow making the summer storm a den of temptation, "You're all mad, the lot of you" he yelled with boyish impudence, "If it wasn't raining you'd all be bothered by the heat"

With a small, cheery grin, he slid off his soaked horse and patted its flanks fondly. Gawain had not seen him this...youthful in weeks. Something about the storm had released the man's childish exuberance. It was entrancing in the doomed way flame entrances moths. Nothing could come of it but pain. Knowing this, but not heading it, Gawain's eyes could not be drawn from the soaked man's body.

Dagonet nodded solemnly, rivets of water running off his domed head "I agree. The weather rarely pays heed to mortal complaints"

"Ah to hell with all you" Bors muttered, "The only liquid in which I'd like to bathe is ale. Water does me no good"

"I care to disagree" Lancelot retorted, "I've shared many a campfire with you, old timer. Water would do you worlds of good"

"Pratt" Bors growled, glaring up as he undid a saddle bag. Lancelot split a joking grin and turned to seek out Arthur. The leader stood frowning at the shaking green wood beyond.

Gawain was only peripherally aware of all this. His eyes refused to be moved from the grinning boy who was now set to tending his horse. Moving through the downpour as if it did not touch him, he bent and turned with a dancer's grace. His shirt clung sinfully to his body, showing with clarity how the muscles of his back moved when he hoisted his saddlebags. The boy was a vision, as desired and damning as power unchecked.

"He is quite good with them" a soft voice declared, making Gawain jump. He'd heard no approach.

Looking over his shoulder, he turned to face the man he knew had spoken. Tristan was as soaked as any of the knights, but seemed not to notice, as if the deluge was a removed and foreign event.

"Pardon?" Gawain asked desperately. His mind had been far from thoughts of horses, and the scout's question had barely reached him.

Tristan arched one semi-concealed eyebrow at him through messy hair. "Galahad is good with horses. That was the reason you were looking at him so closely, was it not?"

Gawain choked silently, his stark blue eyes darting to meet the questioning ones of the man next to him. The question was not, in fact, a question. The slight emphasis on certain words translated to his ears as "I know why you observe him so closely, continue with such gawking and so shall the rest of the camp".

Tristan's abilities had long since lost their eerie edge for the blonde knight. Too many nights he had plucked thoughts from Gawain's mind and given them voice. To accept the man's talent was to exist peaceably with him. A simpler man would have labeled the older man a warlock, and lived his life in fear.

Brushing the damp blonde locks from his face, Gawain only nodded, and offered a weak "Aye" as answer.

Tristan jerked his head subtly, knowing with confidence that his message had been received, and strode off to speak with Arthur. Lancelot had not left their commander's side.

"This is as good as any" Tristan informed them, indicating the soaked roadside meadow before them. He glanced up at the troops through stringy hair, "Even the Wayfarer pines haven't kept out the wet"

Arthur nodded and sighed, shoving black locks from his forehead as he looked around the dreary thicket.

"Very well" he murmured, "Bed down men! This is as good as it comes!"

Lancelot grumbled something dark as he retrieved his rapidly dampening blankets from a nearby saddle bag, most likely laying the poor weather at the feet of their leader's god. The ever solemn figure that Dagonet presented made no comment as he settled himself down against a slippery boulder.

"First watch is mine" He declared, clearly expecting no opposition.

Bors looked up from the brush he was searching for dry firewood. Seeing it as the empty task it was, he strode over to the serious man on guard duty.

"And I shall keep you company" He said with a small grin, settling himself down in the muck, "Got any cards there man? Fancy a few games of cutthroat?"

Dagonet looked at the homely soldier beside him. "You cheat"

"You're bloody well right I do!" Bors cackled proudly. Noticing his companion's stoic frown, his own grin faltered and he quickly turned to his own brand of reason for rescue. "It's not a matter of winning _fairly_" he assured the other man, "It's just a matter of out _cheatin'_ the other guy"

Dagonet gave Bors a dubious look, "I think not"

Gawain shook his head. If Dagonet agreed to play, he'd be penniless come morning. Bors was a bastard. But he was _their_ bastard, and that made all the difference.

Sighing, Gawain looked around the small clearing, realizing slowly that there would be no fire tonight. There was no dry wood for miles and the strong winds would quickly put out any lit flame. A disappointment, but nothing new. This was not the first night they'd bed down in the damp earth with no fire to warm them.

Dagonet and Bors spoke, but in the low tones of those used to guard duty among sleeping friends. Arthur had found an old spruce to lay his back against. The older man looked exhausted. The lines of his brow and eyes shone deep in the rapidly darkening evening_. He grows old before us,_ Gawain thought, casting a concerned frown at their leader. The man bore too much concern for one mortal soul.

Arthur had drawn his cloak and blanket across his shoulders and head, trying in vain to keep out the penetrating rain. Lancelot, as he could be well relied upon to do, knelt down next to the tired leader, offering him with cocky nonchalance the last of the dried meat. Gawain watched for several seconds as the two men talked. Arthur, as he always did, opened his cocoon of blankets to his right hand man and Lancelot easily settled down next to him. To all outward appearances, this was an action designed to conserve warmth. No more.

And yet, Gawain was not so sure. He'd seen soldiers share blankets casually, without the tense air that surrounded the pair in question. No, he decided, glancing at the men a second time, it was not the pair that was surrounded. Lancelot lounged easily against the other man, yet Arthur sat awkwardly, too stiff in the shoulders and back to be called comfortable. Men who were certain their closeness was to share only warmth could lie against one another without concern. But when one's thoughts may stray to things forbidden...that was when anxiety set in. Doubt bred tension.

This did not, however, prevent Arthur's arm from draping across Lancelot's shoulder, letting the smaller man lie flush against him. Some of Arthur's men suspected, Gawain knew - he was, after all, one of them - but the suspicion was born of bored curiosity, not a deep rooted desire to know for certain. _Besides_, Gawain remembered Bors saying, _what's it matter who they bed? As long I'm fightin' with em, and not against 'em, I'm a happier man for it_.

He knew that most of his brethren were unconcerned by such...pleasures. Bedroom antics had little importance before an enemy's blade. Yet he was not sure if the most vital of his fellows even knew such pleasures were possible. He turned to watch Galahad slide down a muddy slope. Could the boy truly be so ignorant?

* * *

"Good gods I'm ready to sleep" Galahad sighed, appearing at Gawain's elbow soundlessly. "What of you, old man?" He asked, grinning up at the blonde knight.

Gawain looked down into Galahad's face, obviously surprised that they were only inches apart. The rain had soaked Gawain through, making the man's yellow hair stick to his forehead in long, random clumps. Galahad grinned broadly for no reason at all, and felt a sudden urge to push the hair from the older man's face.

A rare mood had taken him, and the injustice and despair he carried so heavily seemed a bit lighter tonight. Sometimes in the small, dead hours of night, the stone walls of his room at the fort closed up on him, and his thoughts went astray. He wondered if he should have been born to his people. He loved them and missed them desperately, yet sometimes...he wondered. How different would his life have been if he'd been born to a different land, free of the debt his people owned the ever encroaching Romans?

For in those dark thoughts that came only when he slept alone, he knew for certain that here he was a man apart. He was not born to the battle field. Upon it he was a terror, as none of the knights could dispute, but he could not call it home. He killed as directed, and did it well.

But a career soldier, as many of Arthur's knights viewed themselves, had to, on some quiet level, _enjoy_ battle. Revel in the competition, knowing that in most cases their only reward would be the prolonged state as a breathing man. Enjoy victory, knowing that their sword through another's breast had contributed to success.

Galahad could take pleasure in none of it. He knew he was skilled at what he did, but such knowledge brought him only disgust. He fought bravely for two reasons only. The first had driven him since he'd been taken from his family: he'd fight to live and someday return. Later, another motive developed slowly, over the course of years. Though he'd never feel at home among the warriors around him, he knew they considered him a brother, a bit green, but family all the same. He could not ignore the ties he'd made among them. The second reason he fought was to protect his comrades. He'd die for any of them.

But he'd go to hell for Gawain.

The sentiment was not one that came to him with any degree of comprehension. All the men were his brothers, but perhaps that made Gawain a twin. There was a kinship, a warmth that Galahad felt in his breast whenever he rode with the older man. On nights like these, when the heavens opened, when they'd lie against each other to stay the rain, the warmth expanded and contracted in ways he'd never felt before. The heavy weight of Gawain's arm across his shoulders, lying there as if to protect him, was something Galahad looked forward to on the rare cold nights when shared warmth was needed for survival.

He did not understand it, but he cherished it.

"Yes" Gawain coughed, clearly uneasy. Galahad wondered with a blush how long he'd been starring, "I could do with sleep"

With that, the two men cast a critical eye across the sopping clearing, as if by some miracle their eyes would light upon some area protected from the rain. Finding none such refuge, Gawain settled down against a boulder that, if one's imagination was put to task, could have been believed to be a bit dryer than the surrounding area.

Without a second thought or concern, Galahad stretched one last time and sat down close beside his friend. He did not note how Gawain stiffened at his touch.

"Right then" he said, yawning despite himself. "Let's get these lovely damp blankets sorted out, shall we?"

Gawain grunted and shifted slightly. A few minutes later, Galahad had wrapped them both in wool blankets that were long past offering any refuge from the onslaught.

Calmly, Galahad settled against the other man, reveling in the heat that poured off him. He noticed neither Gawain's blush nor sudden discomfort. The blonde knight shifted awkwardly and let the young man's head rest against his arm. Galahad sighed contentedly, curled tightly against him, and nearly immediately fell asleep.

It was a long while before such relief took Gawain.

* * *

It was early morning when Galahad woke, bleary eyed and confused at his early start. The sun still lay beneath the horizon, dormant and removed. Yawning, he realized he was still curled against Gawain's side, his head hanging comfortably against the other's chest.

It was several quiet minutes before he identified what had woken him. Gawain was dreaming. By the sounds and sudden jerks that the other man gave, it was by no means pleasant. Pressed against him, he could tell the other's blood rushed and a sheen of sweat, not brought by the cool night air, covered his body.

It was not spoken of, but widely known, that the knights were not ignorant of

nightmares. Usually some considerate friend would wake them with a sharp kick to appropriate areas, acting as though it was a jerk brought on by their own slumber. Such anonymous awakenings were done out of consideration for the sleeping man's honor. No soldier wanted their nighttime frights to be known throughout the camp. Fear was weakness and weakness was death.

Galahad knew this, but his deep friendship with the man beside him suggested that he owed him more than a well placed kick. He waited several seconds as Gawain's limbs twitched slightly, and soft terrified moans drifted from his parted mouth. When the dream seemed to only worsen with time, Galahad shifted slightly so that his eyes fell upon Gawain's sweat slicked face. The other man's eyes moved jerkily beneath closed lids, and he grunted softly. Had Galahad been listening with a keen ear, he may have noted syllables within the nonsense that resembled the sound of his own name.

"Gawain" He whispered harshly, now worried for the other man. He reached across him with one arm to shake his shoulder. The action brought them nearly chest to chest. "Gawain! Wake, damn you!"

Apparently, as Galahad would later reflect, Gawain was much more open to suggestion while sleeping. He came awake with a sharp, startled gasp. Wild eyes instantly settled upon Galahad's worried ones.

"You're alive" Gawain marveled, instantly knotting his hands in the younger man's tangled locks and making it impossible for Galahad to pull away. There was a degree of relief and ...something else in his slightly crazed eyes, and Galahad was about to ask the nature of the man's fears when Gawain spoke once more.

"Good gods I love you" it was a low, harsh whisper, spoken with such desperation that it seemed had Gawain not let them out, he would have died of holding them back

At the words Galahad felt something akin to battle madness burst through his body: a cool liquid fear sprung up in his chest and raced through his limbs, leaving him tense and covered in gooseflesh. His pulse sped. Confusion bloomed on his wide, boyish face like an early spring rose. In the next instant, Gawain pulled their lips together.

Galahad could do nothing. His mind had given up on him, abandoning him to the driving terror-tinged confusion that blew through his body. A man's lips upon his own. Gawain's bearded chin against his cheek, his tongue tracing the contours of his lips. Surely he had heard rumors of such...ways, but that was nothing more than drunken barroom gossip, was it not?

Yet he knew it mustn't, if Gawain's passionate kiss was any indication. Galahad went slack, bewilderment paralyzed him. It was several seconds into the one sided kiss before Gawain's movements abruptly stopped.

"Oh gods" he said in horror, finally letting go the death grip he'd had on Galahad's hair and pulling back sharply, "Oh gods" his eyes had resumed the wild terror that had filled them upon waking. The last heavy cloak of sleep fell away, leaving Gawain wakeful and mortified "Galahad, let me explain"

But the younger man was already pushing himself away, realizing that his friend, his _brother,_ had acted believing himself to still be in a dream. True wakefulness had come like ice melt, splashing through the blonde knights' eyes like fire. Gawain had never meant such confessions to see daylight.

Galahad scooted farther away, looking back at Gawain with something like horror in his deep brown eyes. What had the other man intended? What had he _done_?

"Wait!" Gawain pled desperately, "Please, just let me-" Galahad had never heard such despair in a man's voice before. But he was too lost to reason to feel pity.

Confused and horrified, he stumbled backwards as he tried to stand. Gawain too attempted to gain his feet, but the blankets had tangled his legs efficiently, and he could only struggle to his knees as Galahad backed away.

"Please..." Gawain said desperately, looking up at the younger man with pathetic wide eyes.

For a second, a mere heartbeat, it seemed as though Galahad would obey. He paused and took in the wretched picture presented by the man before him. The old hardened soldier looked a few breaths from tears. But terror, most likely brought on by the other man's need, seized Galahad once more. He could not force himself to stay and hear whatever contrived reason Gawain may try and feed him. He fled the campsite and did not look back.

For beneath the shaking panic in his chest, he could not ignore that the warmth within him had fanned to a broiling heat at Gawain's kiss.

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**AN** You liked? You didn't like? You have suggestions?

You review.

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	2. Council and Confessions

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**Council and Confessions**

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A week passed.

Slowly. Cruelly. Bathed in never ending tension and embarrassment. Regrets and apologies bounced through the air unspoken, leaving both men unable to meet eyes. The other soldiers observed the tension with quiet concern, doing nothing but watching Gawain and Galahad's sudden rift with the same sort of confusion they'd reserve for Dagonet attending battle in a skirt and hoop. Night followed day. Spring followed winter. Gawain and Galahad followed each other. Some things just _were. _

Arthur lead his soldiers through the baking farmland, allowing them to been seem at the many small villages that lay in the country surrounding the fort. Their flesh and blood presence dispelled any rumor that Sir Arthur and his knights were no more than legend.

Each town brought its own mix of terror and respect, hate and adoration. Some of the villagers had once called themselves Woads. Now burdened with the citizenship of Rome and civilization, they greeted their indentured protectors with slurs and angry shouts. Gawain, usually outraged by such signs of insolence, remained quiet in his saddle through the worst of it, only looking up when the occasional jeer was loud enough to startle.

His sudden indifference was not lost on the men. Lancelot and Bors jeered him, asking if his lady love had found passion in the arms of a better lover, say, a sheep, cow, or other barnyard animal. Gawain barely responded, and eventually they lost interest. Dagonet asked the nature of his gloom, and received only a short, snapped suggestion to leave him be. The blonde knight was content to remain forlorn. But another in the group was not about to let the soldier slip from his duties.

"Will you tell me what's happened between you?" Arthur asked softly, appearing beside Gawain silently. He looked up and frowned at his leader, casting an eye about for Lancelot. It seemed that for once the young man had abandoned Arthur's side. A glance behind revealed that he'd fallen to the rear of the party and was glaring angrily at Arthur's back.

"Call off your shadow, did you?" Gawain asked, indicating Lancelot's distance. Arthur did not follow his gaze.

"Perhaps" Arthur conceded, looking at the road ahead, "Did you?" He did not have to point out Galahad to know of who he spoke.

Gawain could not stop his eyes as they went to the lonesome figure that the boy presented at the lead of the party. He rode beside Tristan, serving as the scout's unneeded second man. Tristan was a vanguard unto himself.

He'd ridden there since the day after Gawain's...dream. There were few ways that boy could have distanced himself more while riding in a small company along the same trail. But he'd cast his message clear enough. _Stay away, stay back, I want no part in your sordid pleasures._

Gawain tore his eyes away and let his sight settle upon the pommel of his saddle. He'd been studying that oft of late.

"What does it matter? It's none of your concern" Gawain mumbled, refusing to look at the man beside him.

Arthur's eyes flashed sharply and the thin lips pressed closer together. "It is if it effects your fighting. You'd be a liar if you told me this hasn't. I've never seen you so lazy in all your years"

Gawain did not respond verbally. He tried to act as if his commander's words had not harmed him. Arthur's criticisms were never overly harsh, but so infrequent that the words had way of striking through the breast bone. Arthur was not a man to exaggerate his praise or reprimands.

For a long while they road in silence. Gawain quietly nursed the wound Arthur's words had left and, even if it was not conscious, sat straighter and taller in his saddle, keeping a closer watch to the roadside forests.

Arthur did not become impatient. The stoic man rarely let such destructive emotions touch him. Yet when he became convinced that Gawain would not speak again without provocation, he shifted in his saddle and spoke.

"You dream of him dying, don't you?"

Gawain's reaction was immediate. His shoulders tightened, eyes shot open, and tongue nervously escaped to lick dry, chapped lips. He coughed, realized that it was an obvious display of stress, tried to stop, and only succeeded in making an inhuman choking noise in the back of his throat.

Arthur only observed him tiredly.

After several failed attempts, he managed to force his tongue and lips to coordinate and create understandable speech.

"Dream of... dream of who?"

Arthur sighed, growing frustrated with the tortured man Gawain presented. It was pathetic. Here was a man that had killed hundreds upon the battlefield, acting coy as a virgin maid.

"Do not think me stupid" Arthur warned, letting irritation creep into his voice, "I know you've entertained men in your bedroom"

Again, Gawain was left speechless. His eyes fluttered as he remembered dozens of stable boys, bards, traveling merchants...any man that had been willing. He'd been _careful_ dammit! Discreet! No one should have known. He'd taken them all to bed, lead them to the pathetic little cell where his worn cot lay. He'd undress them, kiss them, and blow out the lights, letting whatever man that lay beneath him become another in the moonlight.

"How did you know..." Gawain asked desperately, looking up for the first time from his saddle pommel. Such a direct statement was hard to deny.

Arthur looked at him for a long moment before turning away, "That you fancy men or that you love Galahad?"

Gawain closed his eyes against the fear and shame that suddenly filled him. He'd known that Arthur knew his secret nearly from the man's first words, but hearing it put so bluntly brought his predicament to a new plane of reality.

When Gawain again refused to respond, Arthur continued unhindered, "I care not what you do in bed, Gawain. All I've ever cared for is the lives of my men. Seeing as whatever happened between you may jeopardize that, all I can say is that I want it remedied. Immediately"

"There's nothing I can do" Gawain said hollowly, again slouching in his saddle, "I've ruined it." He closed his eyes and tugged at his clumped blonde hair, "For god's sake, the boy hates me"

"He does not hate you" Arthur said flippantly, as if such s statement was so idiotic it was beyond rebuke. "He may not understand you, but he doesn't hate you"

Gawain lifted his head hesitantly to meet the other's man's eyes. He wanted to believe. He wasn't sure if he could.

Arthur broke the stare with a quick look back to the man that was still storming behind them, well out of earshot. For a moment, Gawain was tempted to ask how well Lancelot understood Arthur, if they shared blankets even on warm nights. But the moment passed and he knew that the questions were nothing but prying.

"Fix it" Arthur instructed, turning his horse around, his voice stern once more, "I don't care how, but as long as you're like this, the both of you are worthless soldiers"

* * *

Galahad rode the week in tortured solitude, refusing to travel with the bulk of the men behind him. Instead he chose the strange non-company that Tristan provided. In the sluggish week, the older tattooed man said no more than ten words to the man beside him. He may grunt a warning at a ditch in the road several hundred feet ahead, or whistle to his hawk that circled high above the knights, but other than that, the wont to speak did not take him.

To Galahad, this came as a mixed blessing. Tristan's silence provided that the young man was not questioned incessantly about his sudden separation from the man whose side he rarely left. However, the gnawing empty hours provided time for him to relive the night's secret events over and over again. What worried him more than Gawain's actions and whispered confessions was the disgust he failed to feel at the memory. Should he not be appalled? Horrified?

And stranger still, though he'd been newly awake and shocked beyond reason during those fleeting moments, he recalled with stinging clarity the specifics of the stolen kiss. How Gawain's long thick hair had trailed across his cheek when he leaned in. The scrape of his beard against his own. The wet hint of a tongue against his closed lips. The clawing, shameful need to give in and let Gawain...

He coughed, and gripped his reins with sudden ferocity. The sudden, sharp pain of his nails against his palms was nearly enough to drive the thoughts away as if they'd never been. The lingering whisp of _something_ trailed across his memory, taunting like some alleyway whore, and Galahad was nearly too weak to resist it.

"Have you grown sick with something, Galahad?" The young man looked up with a start, surprised that Tristan had spoken. It was the longest sentence he'd heard from the man in days.

Frowning, Galahad answered warily, "Erm, no...I feel fine" When the scout did not speak again, curiosity got the better of the young knight, "Why do you ask?"

Tristan rolled his head to look at him. Though the rest of his face was dark and shadowed, marred by scars, tattoos, and greasy locks of hair, the man's eyes were sharp and shining. He lazily arched his eyebrows at Galahad.

"You've been coughing quite a lot of late. Ought get that examined." A ghost of what may have been a grin stole across his face, "Wouldn't want you to fall ill"

Galahad swallowed nervously, suddenly knowing why it was people feared gypsies. They knew what they shouldn't, said what they please, went as they fancied...and Tristan, for all his leather and blades, had the eyes of the Traveling people.

"Right you are" he muttered eventually, for the first time tempted to forsake the man's company for the men behind him.

The quiet summer afternoon enveloped them for a time. The warm, not yet hot, morning breezes favored their trail briefly, carrying the muted sounds of the forest that flanked their path. A few sparrows chirped from treetop perches, fluttering away before the horses' footfalls and creak of well worn leather armor. There were vague rustles among the roadside bushes, yet since Tristan gave no sign of alarm, Galahad took them for harmless animals.

And even that calm could not dull Galahad's ragged nerves. Again and again his thoughts turned to Gawain. If it was not their kiss his mind lingered on, his thoughts turned to the nature of the emotion that lived and flourished in his chest like a separate entity. It must be some other being, he thought, letting his eyes slip closed. Nothing else could explain the palpable flutter and lurch that the thing gave at Gawain's look and touch.

It had only worsened with the kiss. A fleeting, consuming heat had raced through him, and left him hollow at its lost. And while that confused emptiness skittered across his mind like some ill-observed phantom, there was another loss that pained him more deeply. He had not spoken to Gawain for days. He had not ridden with him, laughed with him...kept warm with him.

Galahad winced as he remembered the night that followed Gawain's...attempt. It had rained again, cold and hard. Deliberately, he'd set up his blankets alone, welcoming the cold in place of Gawain's warmth. He had tried to avoid the other's eyes as he did so, feeling foolishly guilty. He'd failed. In a single glance, cursed with guilty clarity, he'd seen the pain and despair in Gawain's face, and was cut deeper than any blade could dream to reach. Gawain had turned away quickly, trying to hide his slain attempt at reconciliation. He'd carried his blankets loosely as he walked away, unknowingly letting them drag in the bubbling muck of the campsite. Rejection had rolled off him in waves. The warmth in Galahad's chest had shuddered, as if struck a heavy blow, and rapidly cooled into ice that still lingered.

Fighting to return to the present, Galahad sighed and looked skyward. Tristan's hawk still soared above them, looking majestic and free. Such sweet illusions...

Tristan noticed and followed Galahad's gaze, smiling at the boy's bitter expression. He was a portrait of innocence spoiled. The boy's face was still young, miraculously free of the deep lines and dull eyes that lifetime soldiers wore with pride. The wide eyes he'd come to them with would never go dull. Instead, they'd sharpened into spear points which he angrily threw at the trials before him. Time had only hewed his self-hate and injustice. Arthur was his mentor, the knights his friends, but the boy made no attempt to hide his intentions after his service ended. Tristan wondered if he'd even considered parting with Gawain. There were bonds and changes that followed men from the battlefield. No amount of miles would stop that.

"It's not a life easily lived" Tristan said suddenly, obviously startling Galahad for the second time that morning. He trained his eyes on a hillcrest several miles in the distance and spoke quietly, knowing that his words were ones the young man had no desire to hear. "We could go into battle on the morrow and not return...t'were I you, I'd take any comfort offered. There's no chance for regret in lives such as ours"

Galahad turned to stare at the now distracted man beside him. Tristan was thoughtfully observing his hawk as it pin wheeled through the sky. Slack jawed, the young man could only blink at the scout for several moments, wondering if he knew as much as he acted he did, and thanking the gods that the man fought with the knights, not against them. Such a man could make or break a war.

"What is it that you think you know of me?" Galahad demanded sharply, letting fear fueled anger creep into his voice.

Tristan did not look at him, but kept his eyes locked skyward. "More than you'd like to know, boy"

There was such a certain, deliberate tone to his voice that Galahad was not only convinced, he was frightened. Reining his horse without another word, he let the strange old scout gain several feet on him. When he nudged his horse to a walk several seconds later, he did not realize how adrift he was among the men. Separated from the majority of his brothers behind him, and again from the solitary man before him, he was alone on the crowded stretch of highway.

He rode sullenly, eyes locked to a frame of sight bordered by his horse's ears, seeing and not bothering to comprehend. An anguished look flashed across his face and he wished with all his being that Gawain had never touched him.

Yet to his horror and instant disclaim, the something within his chest gurgled and warmed at the memory. _Do you?_ Asked some loathsome part of his psyche, _Do you truly?_

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AN: Warm a young gail's 'eart. Review.


	3. Fletching and Fetching

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AN: **Thanks to all that have reviewed! They nevah fail to bring a smile to my face. Enjoy the chap, read, love, live....review...

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**Chapter 3: Fletching and Fetching **

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Afternoon slid across the countryside like honey; slow, warm, and sticky. Shadows began to arch uncomfortably across the road, as if not content to stay to either side of the highway. The heat and unchanging scenery bred laziness, and the knights were languid when the attack finally came.

In retrospect, the men would damn their lazy eyes, blaming their surprise on the comfort that came with riding in lands leagues upon leagues from the Fort. In living each day to fight the Woads beyond the Wall, they'd nearly forgotten what men free of war paint were capable of.

Tristan had been wary all day. His sight remained free of dulled caution, and his fellow's lethargy left him strained and paranoid. Any of the slight amusement he'd had at Galahad's obvious distress vanished in an angry puff of frustration. At the end of the day, they were all warriors. They had no time for distraction.

The road ahead narrowed, bordered on both sides by monstrous boulders. The path ran through them, leaving what lay beyond a mystery.

The company had pulled into a single party as they took lunch, much to the dismay of two of the riders, and they passed the small gap without difficulty. They were only several feet beyond it when Tristan's voice went through the group like a strong wind.

"To the left" he warned, already drawing his sword.

The men's reaction was immediate. They did not even need his words; the mere sight of the scout drawing his weapon was enough. Rare were the times the blade been unsheathed without returning to its scabbard bloodied.

Arthur was shouting commands in seconds, taking only a moment to assess how many men the vague impressions of metal and shadows could account for.

Who ever they were, the men sitting in wait knew that their inefficient cover was broken, and in a messy, disordered attack, released their arrows. The knights were already in position and prepared.

It had taken only seconds.

Galahad released his bow from its saddle holster and had it loaded and aimed in the next second. Casting a quick eye about him, he saw the fierce battle mad face of Gawain beside him. The blonde knight sensed the stare and let his eyes dart to meet it.

"Let's get the sneaking bastards!" Gawain shouted, jovial despite the warring atmosphere. For a moment, a fleeting, adrenaline fueled moment, things between them were right again. Battle washed away the concerns of morning and they were brothers

once more.

Galahad returned the grin and turned to face the shadow ridden wood beyond. His first arrow found its mark in the chest of an archer. He did no more than assure the man's death before loading his bow and searching out a new target. Targets, not men. Battle offered little time for sympathy or guilt. That came after.

The skirmish, for it was little more than that, lasted no more than ten minutes. The ambushers were beginning to flee, stealing back into the darkened forest beyond. The few glimpses the knights saw revealed their attackers as little more than boys. None were older than Galahad. Boys, orphans most likely. Guilt came after.

They were highwaymen, in a broad sense of the term, and new birds to the game at that. They'd never even sent men to both sides of the trail. Boys and greenhorns, trying to fight the legendary knights of the Round Table. They knew not who they attacked that day.

Some sense of safety began drifting back to the knights. No shots had been returned in several minutes, and they all stood upon the trail, bows loaded and waiting. Arthur was the first to lower his weapon.

"Tristan, I want you, Bors, and Dagonet to ride out. See if you can find any stragglers. I want them ques-"

"Galahad!" Gawain's voice tore from his chest in a soul ripping warning. His arm shot out to the other's sleeve, tugging him to his body.

Even as the other man moved, Galahad was already fighting the action, biting out an annoyed protest. But any complaint went silent as pain bloomed in his temple, followed by a soft _twang_ as an arrow buried itself in the dirt of the road.

Shaking slightly, Galahad's hand went to his temple where the arrow had grazed him. His fingers came away bloody.

"Oh my god" his voice quavered. He did not notice how flushly he had pressed himself against Gawain's chest, nor how tightly the other's arm was around his waist.

Gawain grabbed the boy's head roughly, inspected the gash to assure it was no more than a flesh wound, and turned away to mount his horse. There was a crash from the dark forest beyond, as if someone perched high in a tree had fallen the last few feet in an attempt to flee.

Gawain's face was dark and fearsome, his blue eyes lit aflame, and when he spoke, it was with dreadful resolve.

"I shall be back in a moment" He spurred his horse forward without another word, galloping off towards the sounds of someone making a noisy retreat along the forest floor.

Arthur was shouting at him to return immediately, and Tristan and Bors were already mounting to follow him off, but Galahad could only stand shocked upon the trail, holding the gash that was now bleeding steadily.

He'd almost died. He would have left Gawain thinking he hated him. His fingers were sticky with blood, and he could only look at the red mess on his hands distantly. He'd nearly died...

"Here" Dragonet instructed, appearing behind him quietly, "You'll need help with that" The man carried his saddlebag, already rummaging through it for balms and bandages.

"No" Galahad muttered, shaking his head to come back to himself, "I...I have to go...find him. He'll do something...bloody stupid and I...." he looked desperately at the bald man standing before him, "I need to find him"

Dagonet frowned, "What you need are stitches, Galahad. It won't take a moment"

Determined, he shook his head and stole a length of linen from the man's supply bag. Tying it around his head to stay the bleeding, he went to his horse and mounted. When he looked down at the men reaming on the trail, he found Arthur and Lancelot watching him closely.

"Tristan and Bors are already at his aide" Arthur advised him calmly, not sternly, "But if you think he needs you...go"

The phrasing made Galahad hesitate a moment, wondering exactly how much his commander knew. But hearing another crash from the woods beyond, he nodded sharply and kicked his horse to a gallop, leaving such questions for another day.

It was not hard to follow the trail the other knights had taken. After only several seconds of crashing through the underbrush, he picked up a narrow game trail, trusting his horse's footing among the roots and loose dirt. Ahead he could hear Tristan and Bors' horses, though the trail bent and twisted too much for him to lay eyes on them.

Low hanging branches bit and slapped his face, leaving red marks on his bearded cheeks. The pain barely touched him. All his thoughts turned to Gawain and the terror that had laced the man's warning. The need to find him was over powering.

By then, Bors and Tristan were several hundred feet ahead of him and Galahad was becoming frustrated at his lagging speed. He kicked his horse hard in the side, urging him to a faster pace. But just as the stead began to gallop, a soft, nearly inaudible sound caught his ear. By all rights, he shouldn't have heard it at all. The pounding of the horse's feet and his own blood should have been loud enough to block out nearly any other noise. Yet somehow, the one soft groan reached his ears.

He reined his horse so sharply that he was nearly thrown as the animal stumbled to a stop. A quick look around revealed that for several feet the trail opened to the steep side of a dried riverbed. Tall grasses masked the brim of the cliff, masking it to any going by a fast clip.

Again, the soft moan drifted up from below, and Galahad's heart climbed several feet in his chest. The voice was Gawain's.

He nearly fell from his saddle in his rush to dismount, hopping on one foot as he attempted to dislodge the other from the stirrup.

"God damn bloody useless thing" he muttered darkly, finally tearing his foot loose with enough ferocity to send him sprawling to the ground.

He was back on his feet in an instant, unaware that his movements made enough noise to reveal his position to any that cared. He heard naught over the deep, primal pulse of his own rushed blood and the tight quickened breaths that seemed so much louder inside his head.

By then, his horse had calmed itself and stood passively at the side of the narrow trail, nibbling on the soft roadside grasses. Galahad, though he'd regained his feet, did not move. It suddenly came to him what he may find in the streambed.

The soft groans, now wet and rattling, struck more fear in the warrior's heart than any enemy blade. A man could fight for his own life, but could only die for another's. He would not let Gawain die for him. He would not be the one to survive and grieve and go on living.

He would not be left alone.

He moved forward, letting a trembling hand part the brush of its own accord. His mind assailed him with proof of how moronic his worries were. There were others to stave off loneliness; the knights, the whores, the drink and dice.

But there was no other like Gawain. Unbidden memories flooded him, tearing and chipping at the great stone wall he'd built about himself. For years it had stood round him, ever thickening, ever true in its duties. It kept in the good; the crystal clear memories of home, the final taste of his mother's cooking, the last day he lived unaware of what sounds men could make as they died. And it kept out the bad; the guilt of a hundred men's deaths, the ties that the others would have him make, the piteous looks thrown his way when he spoke of one day returning home.

Gawain had never tried to force the barrier. He hadn't needed to. One day he simply happened upon a door, invited himself in, fetched a drink, and made himself at home.

A heavy breath escaped him. When had it happened? When had a day without his grin become gloomy? When had a night without his warmth become cold?

When his eyes finally fell upon the sight in the riverbed, Galahad was so sharp with fear and questions that the scene took several seconds to process in the skittish pathways of his mind.

When comprehension settled, it was on the wings of adrenaline.

"Good Gods no"

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**AN**: Don't yell. It won't help any. Review and the next chap may follow in short measure...


	4. Wanting

**AN**: Ho'kay. So. This scene was the result of a suggestion planted by the lovely Camreyn. Lancelot/Arthur usually takes second seat to GG for me, but with her review, the seed was planted and this little mini-chapter was the outcome.

No worries, the next chapter is all GG, and quite long. This is barely a page, and while I feel slightly guilty posting something so short, the next chapter should be up before Friday. Like I said before, the whole of the story is already written, it's just a matter of revising all the harried writing before it hits ff.

Anyway, enjoy!

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**Chapter 4: Wanting**

Arthur watched them crash through the underbrush, remaining on the trail despite the banshee screams his conscience gave at his lack of action. He should have fetched his horse and blade and followed suit. Lead them, protect them.

He had never known another way.

"You shouldn't have let him go" a tired Lancelot observed, for once not prickling with anger. He was always his happiest after battle, "He's injured...not thinking as clearly as he should for...whatever may happen out there"

"Clear thinking isn't what he needs right now" Arthur murmured, starring off into the green of the wood. There were shouts, the sound of fading of horse hooves, and little more. The birds had taken leave of the trees and any small game had fled. They feared the smell of blood. Smart things.

It was only after Lancelot's presence slid close against him that the tired general tore his eyes from the forest. His sight quickly found the deep, shadowed wilderness of Lancelot eyes, and a slow grin took his face.

Thousands of touches, desires, and fears came back to him in a rush. All those battles which he'd endured with one eye on his opponent and the other on this young, fiery man. There were more pains than pleasures in bedding a man that he forever called on to lay his life before an enemy blade.

But those few pleasure...Lancelot's dimples deepened and a special, rare light entered his eyes. Arthur's face had betrayed his thoughts.

"What are you thinking, Artorious?" Lancelot asked gently, stepping forward into the older man shadow.

_Of all the time's I've nearly lost you, the times I should have kissed you instead of fought you The boy you once were, the innocent you _never_ were, the peaceful man you'll never be, and the strange, foreign fact that I love you more than life. More than freedom. _

_The stranger fact that you love me. _

But instead of putting that poetry to words, giving that honesty breath and life and thereby the possibility of corruption, Arthur only smiled, and bent lower to meet the challenge in Lancelot's eyes.

The kiss, when it came, was pure and chaste and sweet for its rarity. It promised nothing, for they had not lives that offered fulfillment of such nighttime pacts. But it spoke; spoke with more conviction, dedication, and honesty than either soldier could ever hope to capture with his own, lonely lips.

How many nights had they gone now without passion? How many days since they'd last shared this sin?

"Nothing" Arthur said, pulling away with a rare smile on his face, "Nothing that you don't already know"

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**AN**: I know, I know. Mega-short. Forgive me? Review?

Thanks to all and every that have reviewed so far. You are my hero


	5. No Other to Compare

**AN:** I promised and I delivered. Here it is, 7 pages of GG angst. What more could one ask for?

-weeps at low reviews- Oh well. Those that come are wonderful, and bring me naught by joy. I can be content with that.

Camreyn ...you are my shero. Your reviews make my day. Thank you for the consistent, wonderful feedback.

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It was, as Galahad would later come to realize, a blessing that the riverbed was so shallow.

Though steep – in truth, nearly vertical - the drop to the dry, cracked floor was barely five feet. Below, the fauna of the surrounding area had encroached into the long dead stream, thriving in the silt rich soil.

Above - on the trail where Galahad still stood, trembling slightly - there was a matted section of grass that told of something stumbling from the path and over the edge. Galahad followed its projectory and flinched when his eyes fell upon Gawain.

What a strange, fortunate turn of fate. It had been so long since the Gods had looked upon them with any kindness that this, rare blessing as it was, was hard to believe without looking 'round the corner for the pain that would follow. Had the stream carved its way any deeper, Gawain would have died on impact.

In his haste, Gawain had been sloppy. He'd found the trail, followed his quarry, and shut out all reasonable, intelligent thought. Typical of the man, but no less frustrating for it.

The game trail had been ripe with convenient pit falls and thick foliage. If another man had laid in wait along the path, ready for any that might pursue, it wouldn't have been hard to pick off a rampaging, maddened knight moving through the forest like a raging bull.

But Gawain had been lucky, or the archer inexperienced. Either way, his life had been spared only to be risked once more. The arrow was not true, at least in the fact that it did not strike the rider. It struck his mount.

Galahad swallowed as he looked at the scene below him, finally forcing himself to slide down the embankment with wary concern. The arrow had caught Gawain's horse in the side, puncturing a lung and signing its death warrant.

Terrified and in pain, the animal had stumbled, most likely rearing as the arrow tore into it. The archer must have been positioned perfectly; the ambush had come just in time to send stead and rider over the edge. Perhaps the attacker was not so green after all.

Galahad stumbled as he stepped onto the steam bed, his nerves making his actions blunt and clumsy. His nose twitched at the familiar, coppery smell that rolled through the air in waves. Blood was every where.

It was a temporary but surging relief that the rattling death breaths he'd heard not moments passed had been given by the animal, not its owner.

Gawain, however, was in a bad place. The dying animal had pinned him to the ground when it fell from the trail, trapping his left leg from mid-thigh down.

Fighting down thoughts of broken bones and amputation, Galahad nervously approached the still, groaning form.

"Gawain?" his voice left his body in a harsh, terrified whispered. The man's face was shiny with sweat and his brow was drawn in pain. Blood had stained his blonde hair and was gently seeping through the chaotic, matted locks.

Galahad knelt gently by the older man's head, trying to ignore the noises the horse made as it went into its final throes. Its once shining hair was now slick with its own blood and sweat. The poor beast's legs bent at unnatural angles and its black chest rose less and less with each passing breath. The air stank of blood.

Turning his mind from the piteous scene, Galahad bent to gently run his hands across Gawain's brow. He stirred at the touch, but did not wake.

"Gawain?" he called again, this time stronger, encouraged by the man's soft mutterings. Fear and cynicism jeered his momentary hope, reminding him of all the knights that had died in his time at the Round Table. Gawain was no different; he was as susceptible to death as any of the others. Galahad's closeness brought him no additional protection.

_But if that is so_ Galahad thought, lifting Gawain's head into his lap, _why does it feel impossible to loose him?_

At a loss for action, he tugged at Gawain's locks, calling his name and stoking his face. Where in hell had the others gone to?

He damned the highwaymen for their part in this, damned Gawain for his stubborn stupidity, and most of all, he damned the Romans, whose fault it truly was.

And when he had cursed them every way he knew how, he damned himself. He was an idiot, a mad man to let himself become close to the man. A lonely life was one free of loss.

But he thought of the comfort Gawain had brought him over the years, the happiness and camaraderie and campfire laughter...and Galahad could not damn his affections. They had carried him too long to be forsaken.

"You haven't the right to leave" Gawain whispered angrily, not sure at the emotion's root, "You can't leave us, you hear me you old bastard? You can't leave me..."

He swallowed the knot that had risen painfully in his throat, ignoring its demand to be released in tears. He touched the man's brow gently.

"Damn you, Gawain, wake up"

None was more surprised at Gawain's sudden obedience than the man that gave the order. Though bloodied and hurt, the blonde knight stirred slightly and cracked a single, bleary eye open.

Galahad's pulse jumped at the glorious movement, hope rapidly pushing worry and confusion from his mind in a single, blissful breath. His hand shook as he brushed hair from the other's face, completely ignorant of the intimacy of the gesture.

Gawain was returning to consciousness by parts. Once he managed to get both eyes opened and focused, he took his time getting his bearings before speaking. Galahads hands did not leave his face as he did this, and it seemed that Gawain was too dazed to care.

"What the bloody hell happened?" he grunted eventually, wincing as he shifted, "And what's the hell's 'matter with my leg" He lifted his head to look around, and groaned when he saw the horse.

"Oh gods, what manner of ass am I?" He moaned, letting his head fall back into Galahad's lap, blinking in shock when he realized how the younger man positioned them, "That was the best damned horse I ever had"

Galahad grunted something that he hoped sounded comforting, and resumed trailing his fingers across the other's face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked finally, kicking himself as the question left his mouth

"Hurt?" Gawain asked, looking up at him with a smirk on his face, "No m'boy, I

feel fresh as a spring rose - of course I'm bloody hurt! I've got a god damned horse sitting on my leg, how the hell would you feel?" There was heat in the question, but not anger. He couldn't be badly injured if he made light of it.

Galahad laughed at himself and the irate man below him, "I meant your head, you arrogant jackass" he touched the spots of blood on his scalp, "Did you hurt this lump of bone?"

Gawain shifted and sat back on his elbows, letting Galahad free to assess the mess of his legs.

"I shouldn't think so" Gawain replied, touching his head gingerly, "Nah, I'm fine, it's the damned branches that gave me this" He indicated the cuts with sticky fingers, "Not the fall"

Galahad nodded, refusing to let hope swell any larger in his chest. There was no way the man could have escaped completely unharmed...

"And your legs...?" he asked cautiously, nearly afraid to hear the answerer.

Gawain shrugged and moved his free leg without wincing, "This one's fine" he muttered. After several seconds of twitching his pinned leg, he looked up, "Can't tell much of this one, all I feel is pressure"

Galahad nearly muttered, _Know the feeling_ before he could stop himself.

Sighing, he looked to the trail above them, once again wondering where the others had gone to. He feared leaving the animal atop Gawain for any longer, the weight would eventually crush his ankle.

"Well" he muttered, turning back to see Gawain trying, unsuccessfully, to shove the horse from him with his one free leg. The older man grunted and kicked, but the dead weight on his leg did not shift

"I some how doubt that's going to work" Galahad observed flippantly, smirking at Gawain's righteous glare.

But despite his light tone, Galahad could not grasp Gawain's unhurt state. It was miraculous. In his few, but condensed, years of battles, he'd seen nothing to compare. The man had taken a fall that would have killed another in an instant. By the way he was bending and shoving, arching off the ground to gain traction, even his ribs escaped uninjured. Galahad swallowed, suddenly flushed. Most men couldn't bend that way _healthy._

"Galahad!"

The knight jumped, tearing his eyes away from Gawain's midsection to meet the man's eyes. "Wh-what?"

Gawain frowned at him and fell panting back onto his elbows. "Are going to stand there or are you going to help me?"

"Ri-right" he muttered, moving to where the horse lay motionless on Gawain's leg, "I did not think you'd need it, seeing as you made _so_ much progress writhing on the ground like a whore. Didn't want to interfere"

Gawain laughed, "Well, it's just that I've had _such_ experience watching women writhe, I thought an imitation might help"

This was almost like old times, Galahad thought with a smile. The mocking insults, light jokes...it was very nearly the same as before. He did not, however, examine the sudden curiosity that bloomed in his chest at Gawain's boasts. How much truth was to them...what would it be like...

"Right then" he said suddenly, louder than he intended, "Let's see what we can do"

Later, after they realized what they'd accomplished was technically impossible for only two men to do, they'd wonder at just _how_ they got the horse from Gawain's leg. Galahad remembered kneeling down and throwing his shoulder and all his weight against the animal's still back, his feet sliding through the loose dirt as he attempted to find sure footing. He'd heard Gawain grunting and shouting suggestions designed more to annoy than assist.

It was several sweaty minutes before Gawain let out a louder grunt, followed by a sharp gasp,

"Stop!" he panted to Galahad, "Stop, I've got it"

Relieved and dripping with sweat, Galahad ceased his efforts, and turned to see the state of Gawain's leg.

It could have, should have, been worse.

"Oh gods" Gawain muttered, wincing as he bent his leg, "this is just bloody _wonderful_"

Galahad sat next to him, batting Gawain's hands away from the injured leg and forcing him to lay it straight.

"Where does it hurt" He asked cautiously, running his hands gently along his shins, feeling for breaks.

"It's not terrible" Gawain said honestly, his eyes following the boy's fingers as they ghosted across his leg. "I, uh, I don't think it broke, but the damn stones did a number on my calf" he swallowed and bit his lip, ignoring to his best the boy's unknowing caress.

Galahad nodded, not seeing Gawain's discomfort. He noted the blood that specked the back of his pant leg and frowned. The riverbed pebbles had worked their way through the fabric and into the skin.

"Your ankle...?"

Gawain shrugged, "Won't know 'til I try to stand"

Galahad looked up at him, worry creasing his young, smooth face. "Do you want to try?"

Again, Gawain shrugged, much too at ease for the situation. The nonchalance was as telling of his fear as a sob would be for another. _What are you thinking now?_ Galahad wondered, _Do you fear you'll never return to battle? Be deprived a hero's death?_

Shaking his head in disgust and frustration, Galahad rose. Gawain looked up at him with a smile. "A gentleman would help a damsel in distress from the ground with a proffered hand"

Galahad snorted, "You sir must be the most oddly...._equipped_ damsel I've ever the fortune to meet"

Gawain chuckled and clasped the arm Galahad offered him. After several false starts and semi-encouraging words citing Gawain's increased age and apparent frailty, Galahad pulled the other man upright .

But when he put weight on his ankle, Gawain immediately sucked a breath in through gritted teeth. He staggered slightly and let Galahad slip beneath his arm to support him.

"Is it bad?" Galahad asked, looking up into the face that was suddenly only inches from his own

"It's..."Gawain swallowed, tried to shift so they weren't so close, and realized it was impossible, "It's fine"

The blonde knight was looking straight ahead, apparently interested in a tree stump several feet away.

"I can't believe you're nearly unharmed..." Galahad marveled, raising his free hand to touch Gawain's chest. He was looking for breaks in his ribs. He thought.

The touch seemed to be too much for Gawain, and he suddenly stood rigid beside Galahad, his eyes still locked forward.

"Galahad..." he gritted out, trying to make it a warning and not a plea. Frustrated by the younger man's closeness, he turned to confront Galahad's broad, worried face. How could the boy go on holding him like this? The touches they'd shared had never been so intimate. Even before his moonlit indiscretions, Galahad's friendly distance had made it easy for Gawain to ignore his affections...but with his touch now so intimate and unknowingly sensual...Gawain could not bare the taste. All or nothing, both would be easier to deal with than the vague flirtations that Galahad seemed to be attempting.

He'd damn the boy for the torture he put him through, but his eyes were too open, too confused at Gawain's sudden stiffness. It was not his fault he did not understand.

He sighed roughly, and looked once more into the brown eyes that observed him worriedly.

"I'm fine" he repeated, stepping forward to prove his point. He gave little more than a wince, and allowed himself to lean heavily on the boy. "Where the hell are the others?"

"Good bloody question" Galahad muttered, letting himself be distracted by the question. Anything was better than dwelling on the warm spasms in his chest gave at Gawain's touch.

As if in answer, soft talk drifted down from the trail above, muddled with the sound of horses.

"Oi! There they are!" a voice broke through the woodland silence. The rough grate could belong to only one man, and Galahad and Gawain were rewarded moments later when Bors' homely visage appeared above them on the trail.

"God damn you Tristan" the old warrior shouted, turning his head to glare at the knight who'd appeared soundlessly behind him. "We must've passed them four bloody times! What sort of scout are you?"

Tristan only shrugged unapologetically and slid from his saddle. It seemed to Galahad that amidst the hair and shadows on his face, a small grin came and went.

"You alright to climb up?" Galahad asked, glancing up at the blonde knight.

Gawain shrugged and forced a tight smile, "We'll see, won't we?"

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**AN**: Review. Please.

Also, I'm having trouble uploading a chapter to fictionpress. It's not PW protected, open when I'm trying to load it, or too big. Anyone have suggestions? The helpline is never going to get back to me....

Review!


	6. Milk of the Poppy

**AN** Apologies for the previous chapter. Should have rewritten it. Didn't have the inspiration to do so. –sigh- So be it. More angst herein. It never ends.

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It took only a few moments to examine and bandage Gawain's leg. Tristan bent over him and frowned, his eyes going to the deep bruises already forming along his calf and knee.

Gawain winced as the tattooed man squeezed his ankle and foot, swallowing hard as fingers dug into the tender flesh. Tristan nodded, seemingly satisfied and looked into his unwilling patient's eyes.

"Take this" He instructed, hading Gawain a small flask, "It'll help the pain" Gawain accepted the medicine gratefully and downed the contents of the flask in a single swallow. It tasted vaguely of poppies

Tristan grunted and gave the man a withering look.

"What?" Gawain asked, licking his lips

"Not supposed to take it all at once" Tristan replied, eyeing the prone man as if he should have know it "No matter, you'll sleep the rest of the day"

A hearty chuckle drifted up from Bors' direction. "Luckily for us"

"Fuck you Bors" Gawain grunted, muttering it with some degree of indifference, as if in saying it so many time before the words had ceased to have any meaning.

"Damn lucky you are" Tristan commented as he packed his bag. He glanced up to see Gawain grinning like a boy, obviously impressed with his own uncanny fortune. Tristan's expression turned dark.

"But not lucky enough to roll dice with Bors. Or tempt the Gods again" His shadowed eyes darted to look at Galahad, who nervously stood several feet away, "Not if you want to finish what you've started"

And then he was gone, in a soft _whish_ of wool and leather. He mounted his horse and gave the other three a bored stare, expecting them to follow suit.

Gawain thumped his head on the ground, dead tired and in too much discomfort to let the scout's words touch him. Another hint that he knew, and was not exactly keen on keeping it a secret. Gawain wasn't surprised. Tristan had long since stopped surprising him. Just accepting the fact that another would know every creeping desire in his mind was enough.

The trip up the embankment had not been easy. The heavy supply of cursing and Bors' useless suggestions had made it much like any other event, but Galahad's constant closeness, touching, pushing, catching when he slipped...Good gods, was it punishment for his actions? Was the boy purposely torturing him so?

Had he the opportunity, Gawain would have dwelled on such possibilities until one of his fellows told him to 'quit his damn sulking', but he'd barely begun to brood when the sky above his head darkened. The sun was replaced by Bors' scarred, grinning face.

"Bloody amazing trick you've got there, boy." He cracked a crooked, yellow grin, "Expensive though...how much that horse cost you?"

"Fuck you Bors" Gawain muttered pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Damn it all, how am I going to get back to the trail?"

"Walk it off" Bors suggested, turning to mount his horse, "It'll do you some good. 'Sides" he continued, patting his saddle bags, "Got too much gear here for you to ride wit me"

He looked imploringly to Tristan, but the glance he received was clear enough. Riding with the scout would have to follow events that would cause Satan and all his layers of hell to become quite chilly.

"Here" Galahad said softly, stepping forward with a proffered hand, "You can double up with me"

_You hate me_, Gawain said, sneering inwardly at any Gods that were paying heed, _You all, fucking, _hate_ me._

He swallowed unsteadily and nodded, letting himself be drawn upright. He almost fell as he gained his feet, finding himself chest to chest with the younger man.

"Sorry" he muttered, limping slightly as he went to Galahad's horse.

"I-It's alright" Galahad replied, his voice slightly unsteady. Was that a blush on his cheeks?

As it was his horse, Galahad swung up first, taking the reins in hand. He shifted forward, allowing room for the other man behind him. Gawain bit the inside of his lip, drawing blood, and promised himself to think of nothing but naked, haggard old women.

He clasped Galahad's arm and winced as he bent his leg to swing up. He settled easily enough, it was far from the first time he'd ridden double, but discomfort sank in almost immediately, prickling through his chest and stomach. And groin. But he was trying to ignore that.

Tristan nodded when they'd all mounted up, turned, and led the way down the trail with out a word.

Galahad's saddle was too small, Gawain decided with a soft curse. It was a miracle that the boy was able to ride it solo, let alone with another, larger, flushed knight behind him. Gawain balanced himself on the back lip of the cursed thing, hanging onto its underside with desperate, white knuckled hands. Licking his lips nervously, he tried to force his mind from all the places that his body touched the other's.

There was too much to ignore. The broad, leather-clad shoulders that gently brushed his collar bone. The smooth, effortless fit of Galahad's thighs between his own. The way his lower back slid against his stomach with every step. The boy smelled of sweat and dirt and day dreams, and the musk tore through Gawain like wildfire. Curled, jet hair bobbed before his face, gently tickling his nose. God, what wouldn't he give just to reach out and touch it, feel the texture, bury his hands in it...

He swallowed and stopped his thoughts before they could trail any lower. Galahad's skill as a horseman was making the trip considerably worse. The boy let the gentle sway of the horse's footfalls take him, not fighting the slow rhythm in the slightest.

As Gawain was seated rigid as a blade, this presented rather immediate difficulties. Every damn time the bloody horse took a step, Galahad would gently brush back into him, touching places on his body he'd never even thought of as erogenous.

The horse stumbled slightly on a particularly rough section of the narrow trail, suddenly jolting the riders.

"Shit" Gawain grit out, barely staying atop the animal. Galahad's hand shot back, grabbing him before he could fall. "Thanks" he breathed, glancing up to see Galahad's amused smile as the boy looked over his shoulder. Gawain quickly looked away and dug his fingers farther into the leather saddle, praying for balance and willpower.

"Gawain" Galahad said patiently, righting himself in the saddle, "You _will_ fall if you keep sitting like that"

"'m fine" Gawain muttered, his eyes unable to leave the boys shoulders as toned muscles moved beneath the leather. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed very slowly. He could do this, dammit, he was fine.

Galahad gave a single frustrated sigh, and reached one arm behind him. With a little bit of fumbling that left Gawain wide eyed and panting, he clasped a strong fist around one of Gawain's wrists, forcing him to bring it forward. Holding it there with one hand, he repeated the task on his other side.

"There" He grunted, forcing Gawain to hold him, "Stay like that...I won't have you hurt again" the second half of the thought was whispered in a tone that Galahad mistakenly assumed Gawain would miss.

Gawain sighed, feeling the first effects of Tristan's draught take hold. Despite himself, his suddenly weighted eyelids began slipping shut. His treacherous arms encircled Galahad's body tightly, pulling the warm youth back in to him. It didn't occur to him that Galahad did not protest.

This felt good, Gawain admitted to himself, it felt _right_. How many nights had he bedded a man and felt nothing but a fleeting euphoria as he came? Here with Galahad...the familiar warmth and comfort were sweet enough to choke. Desire, not just for the boy's body, welled up in him, and it was all he could do to think of other things.

He loved the boy. Good gods, it was impossible not to. Galahad was sunlight and lightning, thunder on a clear day. He was weary of death, lived for life beyond servitude, and met all obstacles with that disarming, white smile. And he was _innocent_, ignorant, still some how untouched by the vile deeds of man. Purity and youth, wisdom beyond his years...all contained behind dark brown eyes that that reveled little of the depth beyond.

"Perfect..."Gawain muttered, completely unaware not only that he'd spoken aloud, but into the boy's ear as well.

Drowsiness rose up around him like a sudden tide, and soon Gawain was unable to keep his eyes open. Muttering softly, he let his heavy head loll forward, coming to rest on something soft and tickling. He didn't mind all that much. The gentle rocking motion and the warm body sitting between his legs rapidly pulled him towards sleep.

In seconds, true slumber took him and the world dissolved into comforting, warm darkness.

* * *

From the lead of the party Tristan glanced over a sharp shoulder to observe the men behind him. The group was nearly back to the main trail and vague noises of men's voices drifted to him through the thick summer air. Arthur and the others were not far off.

The tonic had worked well and quickly upon the blonde knight, and Tristan could only smirk at the picture the two presented. Galahad rode quietly, his eyes darting around the trail in forced alertness, trying to distract himself. Unsuccessfully, it seemed. The tension in his eyes was not lost on scout.

Gawain was asleep. Dead to the world, as it were. The blonde man's head had fallen upon Galahad's shoulder and Tristan noted with a slight upward twist of the mouth that with each step, the rocking motion brought the sleeping man's lips against Galahad's neck. No wonder the boy was so troubled...

He righted himself in the saddle, ignoring Bors' questioning look. The main trail was coming up on them now, and they'd many more miles before sleep.

* * *

**AN** There we are....review? Please?


	7. Campfire

**AN** You rang? Sorry for the delay, I honestly have the whole of it written up, it's just a matter of editing and the like. Finals makes me forget things. Anyway, enjoy!

They broke for camp in late evening, an hour after they'd normally stop. They did not even speak of quitting the trail until the bloodshed lay miles behind him. Even Arthur, with his one Christian god, sped from place of the ambush as if the dead pursued. But, as their lives of combat had taught them, they respect for the fallen, be they friend or foe, and celebrating their demise only a mile from their grave seemed offensive.

The worry that another ambush would come barely touched the men's minds. Their attackers had been boys, the motley gang consisting of no more than fifteen youths. At least eight of had fallen, and the men very much doubted a repeat of the boys' suicide attempt.

Arthur had been frowning when the others came out of the woods, evidently embroiled in another fight with his right hand man. Whatever relation bound the two knights together, it had a way of turning from flaming hot to bitter cold with a single, misplaced word. Such a moment did the knights find as they returned to the trail.

"What were we supposed to do Artorius?" Lancelot had demanded, glaring up into the older man's face. Galahad had flinched at the question, knowing that Lancelot very rarely called Arthur by his Roman name. His anger was strong. "Let them attack? They damn near killed Galah-"

"Enough" Arthur had said, his voice free of inflection or emotion, but ringing through the countryside none the less for it, "They were children, Lancelot. Boys…It should never have happened"

"You fight the savages beyond the wall without blinking, all for the bloody Romans, but when it comes to fight solely to defend yourself you _balk_?" Lancelot had replied, nearly shaking with frustration. Arthur shook his head slightly, not to deny, but to convey how little the younger man understood. Disgusted, Lancelot turned on his heals and stalked away, wanting to be the first to show his back to the other.

The afternoon and evening had not bettered things. As always, Arthur rode in the center of the company, not looking or speaking to any of the men. Lancelot, sulking and angry, fell to the back of the group and served as rear guard with Dagonet.

Afternoon became evening, and evening had nearly passed to night as they drew upon a small meadow and Arthur gave the order to dismount. Gawain had barely woken all afternoon and Galahad's slight concern had deepened into worry.

"Is he supposed to be like this?" Galahad asked, frowning as he carefully took Gawain down from the saddle. The blonde knight woke enough to mutter a curse and weave his way towards the crackling fire before collapsing on the warm, damp earth.

Tristan observed the slumbering man with raised eyebrows, noting that he'd fallen face first into an anthill.

"No" he said simply, turning to face Galahad, "Usually it will only put one to bed for an hour. But seeing as our over zealous brother took the entire flask…" He trailed off as he watched a trail of drool leak onto the ant hill, "This makes perfect sense"

Galahad nodded, taking the man at his word, not seeing or not caring to see the amusement in his eyes. The others had set up a pot of stew that, if it was not a delight upon his tongue, succeeded in taking the edge off his hunger. Gawain tried to draw his sword when they attempted to wake him for supper, and so was left to sleep.

Bors and Lancelot poked and prodded Gawain throughout the small meal, trying to conjure up the vilest animal in the area that could be coerced to crawl beneath his collar. Arthur put an end to it with his first smile of the night, quietly suggesting that the men get their sleep. There was another long day of travel ahead of them

"But we're returning to the Fort" he said with a small, tight smile, "We'll be home in a few more days"

Lancelot snorted, looking up from the stick he was poking into Gawain's tangled hair, "I don't know of the others Arthur, but I'll not be home for many years yet"

Arthur only stared at the sharp young man a moment before closing his eyes and turning away. The lines were deep in his face as he retrieved his blankets. Something akin to pity flared in Galahad's chest. The ambush had bothered the commander more than it had any of the men.

Tired and aching, Galahad rose to retrieve his blankets. The wound on his temple was scabbed over and itched something horrible. It took all his willpower not to pick it. Tristan had looked at the cut earlier and stated that stitches were unnecessary. It would scar though. No matter, it's not as if it would be the first.

He returned to the fire with his and Gawain's saddle bags. It was too warm a night to sleep against one another, but Galahad felt a surging need to be near the unconscious man. He swallowed as he unfurled Gawain's blankets, letting it settle over the man's shoulders.

Twice in one day they'd nearly been lost. The terrible, panicking, hollow feeling in his chest as he saw Gawain pinned…he never wanted to feel it again. He once feared letting any of the men so close as their death would pain him. But he'd long since learned such a life was an empty existence indeed. To survive on this miserable island was to join in the forced camaraderie and pretend it was their own. Else he might as well be some brick in Hadrian's Wall.

Galahad settled next to Gawain and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Turning his face to the hazy summer sky, he exhaled softly. To befriend the men he lived with was…necessary. It was safe. With death came pain, as always, and sometimes it cut to the yellow of his bones, but it passed. Slowly, but eventually.

But to… _love _one of his brothers. He swallowed. Not only was it strange, completely foreign to him, but…to love another and have them die before you in combat, did _that _pain fade? Would he ever after Gawain's death be able to look upon a summer day without thoughts of him? Would all luxuries be bitter with the thoughts of those he'd once shared them with?

But another, simpler, more carnal part of his mind whispered treacherous thoughts in his ear. _Do you really think you could loose him now and it be any different? _Galahad stared into the fire, completely dead to the raucous laughter spilling from the other warriors. To loose Gawain now would do nothing more than kill him. They anchored each other, and to loose that grounding would mean insanity, if not death.

His hand went to the rough blonde hair of the man beside him and idly picked out the twig crown Bors and Lancelot had inserted. There were too many questions flying about his mind, and the tiring events of the day were beginning to catch up on him. A heavy sigh escaped his lips and he quietly bedded down in the soft grass, thankful for the rare lack of stones and twigs.

He shut his eyes against the questions, leaving them for the clearer light of morning. Night's only embrace was in the form of sleep deserved, and he gladly took the luxury.

But as slumber settled over him, and thought began to travel of its own accord, no longer boarded by the wills of its master, a single acrid word stole into his mind, twitching his heart and stealing his breath.

_Coward._

**AN** That's that then. The next chapter shall be the last. Any comments are welcome as always…


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